Happy Thoughts
by Auror89
Summary: The Joker walks in on Voldemort's "group therapy session" and strikes up a surprising deal. Short, funny, and completely random. HP7/Dark Knight crossover. *Spoilers* Please read and review.


**Chapter 1**

"I want him dead!" Voldemort shrieked at his gathering of trembling cronies. They had assembled around the Malfoy's dining room table for their monthly Death Eater get-together, and as usual, it began with a hissy fit.

"DEAD!" the Dark Lord repeated, as if his servants didn't understand the meaning of the word.

"We are trying Master. We are trying so very—"

The unfortunate Death Eater never finished his sentence, but collapsed to the ground in a mangled, bloody heap, his eyeballs bulging with spinal fluid. Voldemort didn't like him much. He was a lazy, bespectacled whiner.

Like Harry Potter.

The throng of Death Eaters fidgeted ever so slightly, but otherwise remained calm. Someone always kicked the bucket at every meeting.

Voldemort continued his anti-Potter rampage to a group of silent servants, all too afraid to utter a word for fear of meeting their own gruesome ends, save Snape, of course. Severus Snape could get away with anything. Cuz he and the Dark Lord were tight.

"I'm sorry, sir. We are doing all we can to capture the boy for you. But he has great protection."

"Dumbledore is DEAD!" Voldemort spat. He seemed to like the word 'dead'.

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing! The boy should be dead by now! Why is he not DEAD!?"

"_Hee hee hee…"_

A strange man sauntered into the room, sporting a purple suit and clown make up. For the first time since his reptilian transformation, Voldemort had to compete for the title of freakiest looking person in the room, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.

"Who are you?" he hissed.

"I am…the Joker," said the man, extending his arms and cocking his head sideways in an awkward bow.

"Why are you wearing make up?"

"Why are _you_?"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't have my boy here blast your head off!" Voldemort yelled, gesturing toward his "boy"--Severus Snape.

"How 'bout a magic trick?" The Joker whipped a wand from his pocket and jabbed it into the wooden table. "I'm going to make this wand disappear."

"Anyone can do that," Snape droned. "Idiot." He hoisted himself lazily from his chair and made his way over to the psychopathic clown.

WHACK!

Snape was on the floor.

Dead.

And the wand was gone. Like magic.

The Death Eaters and Voldemort himself gazed at the Joker incredulously.

"Ok, what do you want?" the Dark Lord asked.

"I can kill Potter."

"No. He's mine."

"Then why don't you kill him already?"

"It's not that easy."

"Well, not for you I suppose."

Voldemort leapt from his seat and pointed his wand threatening at the Joker.

"Watch it," said the clown, revealing several orbs dangling on the inside of his suit jacket.

"What are those?"

"Prophesies…about you."

"NO!!" Voldemort immediately lowered his wand.

"That's what I thought."

"Bring me Potter, but don't kill him."

"Deal, and in exchange for Potter, I want…hmm…a piece of your soul."

"Why?"

"For the heck of it. Besides, you already have…what? Seven?"

"I…uh…don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. So it's a deal then?"

Voldemort glanced around nervously at his confused posse, then nodded ever so slightly. "But you have to give me the prophesies too."

"Deal."

And with that, the Joker departed.

**Chapter 2**

Meanwhile, Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, and Harry were flying frantically toward the Burrow. Of course, there was only one _real _Harry. The rest were merely decoys. And thank goodness they had decoys because it was certainly a rough night. Voldemort and his gang were out and about, trying to figure out which Harry was Harry, but thanks to some mysterious wandwork, the real Harry managed to shake Voldemort long enough to safely reach the Burrow.

All the other "Harrys" reached the Burrow in safety as well, all save one.

Mundungus.

Well, that wasn't too bad. Nobody really cared about Mundungus. Until, of course, they realized he was dead, as became abruptly apparently when his dangling corpse, still sporting Potter-esque glasses and teenage boy attire, slammed against the window during morning breakfast. Slightly hysterical, the group surrounded and scrutinized the body. It didn't look like Voldy's work. The victim had been hung, for one, and painted like a clown. And then Harry noticed the Joker card pinned on Mundungus' chest.

_Will the real Harry Potter please stand up?_

So somebody else was hunting him? Great.

Then there was the videotape. At first it seemed they had nothing to play it on, but thanks to Mr. Weasley's collection of Muggle gadgets, they found a small TV and VCR.

The tape opened with Mundungus strapped to a chair. He had begun the transformation from Harry back to himself.

"Are you the real Harry Potter?" the voice behind the camera asked.

"No," said Mundungus.

"No. No," the voice chuckled. The tape continued with a strange, clownlike man instructing Harry to give himself up or people will die, starting with Mundungus. It was all very horrible to watch.

So now Harry not only had Voldemort after him, but a psychotic murderer that wore make up. Oh, and he was also a Muggle.

Harry spent the remainder of the day sulking in Ron's bedroom.

Eventually, Harry decided the noble thing to do would be to turn himself in to this "Joker" and put an end to the killings. But the Joker was a Muggle. Harry couldn't turn himself in to a Muggle. That would be lame and bad for his image.

But letting people die was bad for his image too. Why did life have to be so difficult?

"Don't worry about this clown, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley, poking her head through the door. "Everyone's out looking for him."

"Then everyone will die," said Harry grimly. He wasn't too optimistic these days. Molly sighed and disappeared. Best to leave the poor boy alone to his depressing thoughts.

**Chapter 3**

Despite the searching, nobody ever found the Joker, but they did find traces of DNA on the card he left behind—Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Cornelius Fudge—his next victims. Harry didn't care too much about Cornelius. He could die (and sure enough he did in a fiery broom explosion soon after). Ron and Hermione, however, were locked in a bedroom and closely guarded. Hermione resented the confinement, confident she could fight this Joker on her own, but she had to content herself with lounging against the wall sipping pumpkin juice.

A few moments later she was dead, and Ron was in hysterics. It was later determined that the pumpkin juice was poisoned, and although Ron attempted to drink some in an effort to be reunited with his beloved, Lupin managed to retrieve the bottle and eradicate the toxic beverage with a flick of his wand.

Having now lost one of his best friends, Harry felt it was necessary to give himself in to this madman, so late one night, he snuck out of the Burrow and found the Joker waiting for him.

"It's about time."

"Why not just come in and take me? Why kill my friends!?" Harry cried.

"It's more fun this way."

"What do you want with me?"

"Nothing at all. It's Voldemort who wants you."

"You're working for Voldemort!?"

"I work for no one."

Silence. The two simply stared at each other.

"You look nervous. Is it the scars?" the Joker suddenly asked. "You want to know how I got them?"

**Chapter 4**

Harry woke up in a dark room. His face hurt.

He could hear footsteps to his left. Although his vision was blurred, he could make out the two shapes looming over him.

Suddenly, the room was illuminated by a flash of green.

Harry was dead. (Or so they thought...but really, he was in some kind of wizard limbo conversing with Dumbledore and watching the creature that was Voldemort--that had lived in Harry's head for 15 years--rock back and forth in a fetal position.)

"Well done," Voldemort was saying, as he pocketed his wand, along with his new stash of prophesies. He handed the Joker a shiny locket. "I'm not sure what use you'll have for this, but keep it safe."

"I will." The Joker laid the locket on the ground, retrieved a massive gun from his jacket, and pelted it with bullets.

"What are you doing!!" Voldemort squealed.

"It's not about the Horcrux," said the Joker. "It's about sending a message."

The Horcrux exploded in a fiery inferno, and Voldemort watched his soul disintegrate into shimmering specks of pixy dust.

Dismayed, he gathered the soul's remains into a tiny glass bottle. People always wondered how he managed to fly without a broomstick.

It was simple, yet difficult…

Sometimes it is hard to think happy thoughts when you are showering yourself with the remains of yet another demolished portion of your soul.

**THE END**


End file.
